


What It Means to Be a Fëanorion

by inigo1220



Series: The Ants Go Marching [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Coming Out, Family, Family Bonding, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23074024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inigo1220/pseuds/inigo1220
Summary: We are Fëanorions.We are proud.We are intelligent.We are brave.We are creative.We always do our best, and we always win.Moments when the Fëanorion children proved themselves to be part of the family. ModernAU (Part of The Ants Go Marching On universe)
Series: The Ants Go Marching [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586407
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	What It Means to Be a Fëanorion

**Author's Note:**

> CW: homophobic language (not from family!) 
> 
> Maedhros' recipe for success involves getting stellar grades, taking care of siblings and pregnant mother, and ignoring middle school drama. Unfortunately, the drama finds him.

“Hey.” Maedhros looks up from his book, where he’s tucked himself away amid the hubbub of the middle school cafeteria. His food lays on his tray, cold and neglected.

Maedhros frowns at the girl standing in front of him. The other kids gave up a long time ago on making him talk to them. Some whisper to each other that it’s because he was homeschooled, so he doesn’t know how to interact with anyone; others say that he’s stuck-up because he’s the son of “you know who.” Maedhros thinks both lines of reasoning fall flat. If either of those were true, Maglor would not be one of the most popular kids in the seventh grade. Maedhros doesn’t think himself better than anyone here, and while he regrets give others such an impression of himself, he is steadfast in the knowledge that if he is to maintain his perfect average and meet all of his home commitments, he cannot be friends with others. He is not lonely. He is just alone.

The girl bites her lip, but she smiles at him. Maedhros has never met her before, but he is already certain she was persuaded to come here by her friends. Indeed, she glance back to a table a little ways away, where a blonde girl gestures to her. “Um, my friend wanted me to ask if you would be her boyfriend?”

Maedhros frowns harder. Why would he be interested in dating girl who can’t even ask him herself? Why would he be interested in dating period? He had far more important matters to attend to, including but not limited to caring for his very pregnant mother by making sure that an over-active, aggressive nine-year-old didn’t break his neck on accident, reminding the ill-tempered and recently diagnosed as epileptic seven-year-old to take his medicine before they have to call 911 again, and deal with the fact that his father is more interested in tutoring the two-year-old genius than asking Maedhros how his day went – and actually listening.

He realizes he is frowning and quickly schools his face into a face of contemplation.

“So, do you wanna be her boyfriend?”

Out of curiosity, Maedhros asks, “Who is she?”

The girl points at the blonde who gestured earlier. Maedhros recognizes her now as one of the more popular girls who earned her fame, at least in part, by doing the Cinnamon Challenge during recess and putting it on the internet.

“No thank you,” Maedhros says, as diplomatically as he can. He regrets asking now, realizing that he will likely incur the ire of that entire friend group. Father is right. He needs to think more critically about the consequences of his actions. Maedhros doesn’t have friends; he certainly doesn’t want enemies.

But the girl’s smile only widens into what could almost be a restrained “oh” of surprise. She seems like she’s about to laugh, but the bell rings, and she bounds away from him, as he tucks his book under his arm and picks up his still full tray. He shrugs off her expression, walking over to the trash can and makes a point to not even glance at the nearby table of girls.

But he can still hear them.

“I told you he was gay!”

“Ugh, come on, that was so obvious – have you seen his hair?”

“I would kill for hair like his.”

“Okay, but, confirmed, Maedhros Fëanorion is hella gay.”

His hand freezes in the position where he let the tray go, and he feels the hair on the back of his neck rise.

“You know who he would be really cute with?”

“Gross, we’re not the gay matchmakers.”

“True, plus, he’s kind of a weirdo anyway. Who’d want to date him?”

“Aw, don’t say that. I had him on my team for a project once. He’s actually really nice.”

“Isn’t that the other dead giveaway though? Aren’t gay guys like super nice?”

“Yeah, straight guys are jerks.”

Maedhros regains movement in his body and tries to walk out as quickly as he can without breaking into a full-on run.

His day doesn’t get any better. In the past, he has been generally grateful for his ability to read people. His father has always told him that it is his greatest strength, to know what people are thinking, how they’re feeling, that it will serve him well someday. Except that strength has always been coupled with the knowledge of exactly what to say to get the result he wants.

Today, that second skill has vanished.

He spends the last three periods feeling his classmates’ eyes on him. He notices peers he’s never noticed before. He senses the emotions that swirl around him: disdain, amusement, surprise, and, oddly enough, satisfaction. A boy he’s never even spoken to before smirks at him during passing period, and, even though he doesn’t yet know how to respond, Maedhros finally gets it: while he’s been buried in his books for the last three years, refusing their invitations to parties and games and weekend hangouts, they’ve been busy writing their own stories about him, creating their own reasons for his aloof nature.

Today, the story hit its climax: rumor flies that Maedhros Feanorion is gay.

Maedhros walks into his last period, taking his usual seat at the front. He feels their eyes on him, and he wonders if he should just turn around and announce that yes, there is a 90% chance that they are indeed right; Maedhros likes the idea of kissing boys much more than he’s ever even thought about kissing a girl. Unease coils in his stomach at the thought of such a bold—and certainly non-academic—move. He feels nauseous, but he forces himself to stay in his seat, to answer all the questions, to work silently and independently just as he does every day. The work distracts him, but when the bell rings, the uncertainty returns.

He grabs and stores his materials in his locker quick as can be, then heads to the seventh grade hallway to pick up Maglor before they head out together to wait for their father. Even in the seventh-grade hallway, Maedhros feels the younger students eyeing him with interest. He ignores them all and makes it to Maglor’s locker.

Maglor’s pod of friends turn in unison to face him.

He ignores them, too. “Ready, Makalaurë?”

Maglor tries not to make it obvious, but Maedhros knows Maglor’s biting the inside of his lip. He’s heard, and Maedhros feels like he has stepped into a pool of ice. He can deal with rumors and dislike and amusement of these strangers he plans on never seeing again, but his brother, who has always followed him around, always been there for him, always loved him, looking at him like he has doubts – that, that, Maedhros cannot take.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, Mags,” one of the friends hurriedly says, and within seconds, all of them have vanished.

Maedhros gives up on pretending. “Listen, if you’re going to be weird about it, can you be weird about it at some other time? I’d really like to get home, and you know Father will be upset if we make him wait.”

“So, it is true?” Maglor asks, surprised.

“I don’t know, Maglor. I just wanna go home.”

Maglor hums, shrugs, and stays close by Maedhros’ side as they walk down the hallway. Looking down at Maglor, he feels his heart slow down a little. Maglor’s not upset with him or disgusted or disturbed; he just wasn’t sure what to say either. Sure enough, his younger brother looks up at him as they push the school entrance open, and smiles. Once outside, Maglor touches his arm. “You know, Nelyo, none of us would care. Not me. Not _amil_ or _atya_. We love you all the same. I’m sure if you told _Atya_ , he will think nothing of it.”

Maglor’s expression is one of concern. Maedhros doesn’t like it. He grins. “They do think nothing of it. _Atya_ made _Amil_ have the talk with me, because he thought I’d want to talk about boys.” Maglor gapes at him, and the two brothers laugh loudly.

“When did this happen?” Maglor exclaims.

“A few weeks ago,” Maedhros admits.

Maglor’s mouth flies open. “That’s why Atya made me go help him!” Maedhros nods, still chuckling. A honk makes them both jump, and they notice their father’s car. “You better tell me when we get home!” Maglor whispers fiercely, as they jog over to the car.

The next day, Maedhros goes about his business as usual. Or tries, because after he carefully places yet another A+ paper into his locker, a bang on the locker next to him makes him jump and turn to the source of the noise. It’s one of the guys from the basketball team. He’s almost as tall as Maedhros, which is saying something, because Maedhros is half an inch away from being six feet tall. The basketball boy smirks at him.

“Suck my cock, faggot,” the boy sniggers. A gaggle of peers around them starts laughing, though some, Maedhros notes, look at him with some pity. Maedhros returns his attention to the boy in front of him, who looks disgustingly smug.

Annoyed but unwilling to pick a fight, Maedhros closes his locker and starts to walk away until the boy says loudly, “I thought you liked sucking dick?”

Maedhros stands perfectly still, as his thoughts whirl. In half of a second, he decides he will not tolerate this for the rest of the school year. It ends now. He isn’t particularly strong, but his father was insistent that they learn martial arts, and by the end of that second, Maedhros has the other boy in a headlock. “Never fucking say that shit to me again,” he says viciously, tightening his grip around the other’s neck.

“Maedhros Fëanorion! Let go! Let go this instant!”

Maedhros tightens his arm once more for good measure, then lets go to look at the shocked teacher standing in front of him. Her eyes are wide and horrified, looking at him with equal parts concern and fear. A teacher has never looked at him like that before. The deeper consequence of his actions dawn on him: his teachers, the administrators, who have always seen him as the golden boy who has the answer to every question asked in class, the best writing, oration, and strongest reading skills of any student at their school, will think differently of him now. Now, he’s the kid who almost choked his classmate.

But Maedhros refuses to bow his head in shame. “Yes?” he asks, as though he is not aware that he did anything wrong.

“Principal’s office, now,” the teacher’s eyes flash.

“Yes, ma’am.” He walks away, ignoring the stares of his classmates.

Once in the car, Maedhros feels the very real fear of having disappointed his father. He always thought it would be Celegorm who would be the first to be suspended from school, but now that he sat in the backseat of their car, baby Curufin playing toddler book, Maedhros breaks his silence: “I just wanted it to stop.”

Fëanor glances at him through the rearview mirror.

“I’m sorry. I know I have to do better about thinking through the consequences of my actions.” Maedhros’ voice is small. His father pulls the car over to the side of the road, and Maedhros braces himself for his father to yell again. Except, this time, it’ll probably be worse because Fëanor can at least somewhat control himself in front of school staff.

“Whose son are you?” His father’s voice is fierce.

“Yours?”

“Indeed. And who are we?”

“Fëanorions,” Maedhros whispers.

His father turns around in his seat to face Maedhros. His eyes have a dangerous glint in them. “You know better than to say it like that.”

“Fëanorions,” Maedhros repeats, his voice clearer but still unsure.

“And how do Fëanorions behave?”

“We are proud,” Maedhros replies. This time his voice is utterly fearless. These are words he has repeated since childhood. “We are brave. We are intelligent. We are creative. We always do our best, and we always win.”

Fëanor nods. “Were you proud today?”

Maedhros looks down. He’s not sure what answer his father wants to hear. He decides to be honest. “Yes. He tried to humiliate me, and I made him stop.”

“Were you brave?”

Maedhros looks up. “Yes.”

“Were you being smart about it?”

“I mean, if I didn’t do anything about it, he would have kept going… so, yes?”

“Okay. Was that a creative way of doing it?”

Maedhros allows himself a small grin. “Yeah. He was way stronger than me. There was no way I could I have actually fought him and won.”

“So, you did your best, and you won.”

“I still got suspended,” Maedhros mutters, looking back down at the floor bitterly.

“But you won the fight. And, I imagine, none of your peers will dare make such inappropriate remarks again, at least not towards you.” Maedhros looks back up to frown slightly at his father. “Nelyafinwë,” Maedhros feels himself sit up straighter at the use of his formal middle name. “You were a model Fëanorion today, and I am proud of you for it.”

Maedhros smiles wide and can’t resist the urge to move out of his seat and hug his father. His father doesn’t return the hug, but Maedhros feels lips quirk into a rare smile. Maedhros pulls away, but Fëanor puts an arm on his shoulder. “I’m proud you, Nelyo. No one has a right to humiliate you like that, and if they ever try, you do what you must.”

Maedhros nods, then exclaims, “Ow!” as something hard hit his head. Curufin chortles from his baby seat, and Maedhros notes that the toddler book is no longer in his hands. “My Atya!” Curufin asserts.

Maedhros’ eyes narrow.

“Except your brothers. They get a free pass,” Fëanor clarifies, barely holding back his laughter.

The baby responds to Maedhros’ glare toothless smile, and after a few seconds, Maedhros glare recedes into a smile of his own, as he leans back into his seat, and Fëanor resumes driving. Today, he was a model Feanorion; today, he made his father proud.

He is neither lonely, nor alone – not while he has his family.


End file.
